![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebitterguyOkay, so each and every one of you who chose to participate in the hallowe'en candy grab-a-bration last night probably had to deal with a few Friggin' Punks. Friggin' Punks are usually late teenagers whose costumes consist of not much mroe than a scowl. The Bitter Guy has a solution. Today is End of Season for Hallowe'en treats. Go down to your local grocery store and pick up a bag of those atrocious generic taffy things, with the Hallowe'en imagery on the wrappers. Yeah, those. The Taffies of Hate.
Save them. Trust me, you won't be tempted to eat them, barring the end of civilization, in which case spiting obnoxious teenagers will be the least of your worries, after hordes of refugees, radiation storms and zombies.
Next year, get your regular treats for the good little boys and girls. Place them in a bowl by the door. Take the Taffies of Hate and place them in another bowl.
When good little boys and girls come to the door dressed in whatever is the fashion of the year (next year, I predict it will be... I have no idea, actually. If I could prognosticate like that, I'd own a small town in central Ontario), give them the nice treats. I enjoy gummy fangs.
When the Friggin' Punks arrive (and they will, usually after the good children have finished their rounds, even after you've extinguished your candle), simply look them over. Inspect them carefully. Perhaps, even, inquire "what are you supposed to be?" Interjecting "exactly" at any of several points, or as a followup sentence, works well.
They may fidget, or mumble some reply. If they do, enjoy that while you can. Awkwardness is a rare state for Friggin' Punks. Then, reach your hand into the auxilliary bowl and hand them... A Handful of Hate. Enjoy the feeling of the hard (for when they get stale, they are oh, so hard. And stale they will be, by about Christmas) candy in the unforgiving wrappers. Do not place it into the bag, thrust it at the Friggin' Punks. Open your hand and let it drop out, like gravesoil onto a coffin. Smile a rigid smile. Smile a brittle smile. Allow none of the joy you feel at that moment to come out. Perhaps, if you're equipped for it, raise an eyebrow at them, and wish them a happy Hallowe'en. Then close the door.
You may wish to watch them as they leave, to prevent any retribution, although the Playstation generation seems incapable of the finer arts of revenge; buying eggs or TP seems beyond them.
When they get home, they'll eventually eat them (possibly in a junk food jones state), shattering their teeth on the fossilized taffy. Which is, admittedly, a mercy compared to eating the Taffies of Hate. But I am a merciful Bitter Guy.
So, I bid you, happy Dios De Muertos!
Save them. Trust me, you won't be tempted to eat them, barring the end of civilization, in which case spiting obnoxious teenagers will be the least of your worries, after hordes of refugees, radiation storms and zombies.
Next year, get your regular treats for the good little boys and girls. Place them in a bowl by the door. Take the Taffies of Hate and place them in another bowl.
When good little boys and girls come to the door dressed in whatever is the fashion of the year (next year, I predict it will be... I have no idea, actually. If I could prognosticate like that, I'd own a small town in central Ontario), give them the nice treats. I enjoy gummy fangs.
When the Friggin' Punks arrive (and they will, usually after the good children have finished their rounds, even after you've extinguished your candle), simply look them over. Inspect them carefully. Perhaps, even, inquire "what are you supposed to be?" Interjecting "exactly" at any of several points, or as a followup sentence, works well.
They may fidget, or mumble some reply. If they do, enjoy that while you can. Awkwardness is a rare state for Friggin' Punks. Then, reach your hand into the auxilliary bowl and hand them... A Handful of Hate. Enjoy the feeling of the hard (for when they get stale, they are oh, so hard. And stale they will be, by about Christmas) candy in the unforgiving wrappers. Do not place it into the bag, thrust it at the Friggin' Punks. Open your hand and let it drop out, like gravesoil onto a coffin. Smile a rigid smile. Smile a brittle smile. Allow none of the joy you feel at that moment to come out. Perhaps, if you're equipped for it, raise an eyebrow at them, and wish them a happy Hallowe'en. Then close the door.
You may wish to watch them as they leave, to prevent any retribution, although the Playstation generation seems incapable of the finer arts of revenge; buying eggs or TP seems beyond them.
When they get home, they'll eventually eat them (possibly in a junk food jones state), shattering their teeth on the fossilized taffy. Which is, admittedly, a mercy compared to eating the Taffies of Hate. But I am a merciful Bitter Guy.
So, I bid you, happy Dios De Muertos!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 10:40 pm (UTC)Weird note: the punks in our neighbourhood were out before the little kids. Guess 'cause they didn't have to wait until after dinner, or something.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:54 am (UTC)Taffies of Hate are an awesome idea. I almost wish I hadn't thrown out the old crappy candy from last year! :D